They say a man dies twice-once when his heart stops, and another when the world forgets his name.
Lucian already died a dozen times.
His wooden sword hit the ground with a dull thud, the echo swallowed by the circle of laughter. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth where Sir Aldren's training blade had struck him—again.
The soldiers around him didn't even pretend to look surprised. Some smirked. One of them spat near his boots.
"Still breathing, 'General'?" Aldren mocked, using the title like a curse.
Lucian didn't answer. He never did. The dirt tasted like ash, but silence tasted worse.
He pushed himself up, trembling from the bruises and something worse—the weight of every fight he never won.
Lucian didn't bother with the provocation and continued hitting the target with his blunt, old wooden sword.
Each strike made a dull crack against the post, more bark than bite. The training yard echoed with laughter behind him, but he didn't flinch—not even when the jeers turned to insults.
"Look at him," one recruit snorted. "Still swinging like that'll make a difference."
"Aye," said another. "Maybe if the enemy's a sack of straw."
Lucian's grip tightened around the hilt. He adjusted his stance—left foot forward, shoulder square, strike again.
One, two, pause. One, two, pause.
It wasn't about power. Not anymore. It was rhythm. Control. Discipline. Something he could own.
He heard footsteps crunch behind him. Then came the voice of Sir Aldren, loud enough for the whole yard to hear.
"Practicing for your next glorious loss, Lucian?"
Silence followed, thick with anticipation. The other soldiers stopped pretending to train. Everyone waited for Lucian to snap back.
But he didn't.
He simply raised the sword again, swung, and struck the post cleanly—twice.
Then a third time, harder. A piece of splintered wood fell from the target.
"That's not an answer," Aldren said, stepping closer now. "You think ignoring failure makes it disappear? You were given a legacy, boy. You've dragged your father's name through mud deep enough to drown in."
Lucian paused mid-swing. His next words were barely audible, but sharp.
"Then let me drown quietly."